THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LABOR  AND  THE  ANGEL 


LABOR    AND 
THE    ANGEL 

DUNCAN    CAMPBELL   SCOTT 


BOSTON 
COPELAND  AND    DAY 


M  DCCC  XCVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1898,  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY 


TO    MY    WIFE 

In  e^ery  heart  the  heart  of  spring 
Bursts  into  leaf  and  bud\ 

The  heart  of  love  in  every  heart 
Leaps  luith  its  eager  flood. 

Then  hasten,  rosy  life,   and  lead 
The  Pilgrim  to  the  door. 

His  sandals  thonged  for  ministering, 
His  forehead  bright  <u)ith  lore. 


Oh,  happy  lovers,   learn  to  serve. 
And  crovjn  your  state  voith  povuer. 

For  Service  is  the  peasant  root. 
And  Love  the  princely  flovoer. 


FR 


762926 


CONTENTS. 


LABOR   AND  THE  ANGEL 

I 

THE  HARVEST 

5 

WHEN  SPRING  GOES  BY 

II 

MARCH 

12 

IN   MAY 

12 

ON  THE   MOUNTAIN 

13 

THE  ONONDAGA  MADONNA 

15 

WATKWENIES 

IS 

AVIS 

16 

THE  VIOLET  PRESSED   IN   A  COPY   OF    SHAKE- 

SPEARE 

19 

ANGELUS 

21 

ADAGIO 

21 

DIRGE  FOR  A  VIOLET 

^3 

EQUATION 

24 

AFTERWARDS 

24 

STONE  BREAKING 

25 

THE  LESSON 

26 

FROM  SHADOW 

27 

THE  PIPER  OF  ARLL 

29 

35 

AT  LES  feOULEMENTS 

THE  WOLF 

35 

RAIN  AND  THE   ROBIN 

37 

THE  DAME   REGNANT 

37 

THE  CUP 

45 

THE  HAPPY  FATALIST 

45 

A  GROUP  OF  SONGS 

I.     WHEN    THE    ASH-TREE     BUDS    AND    THE 

MAPLES  46 

II.    THE   WORLD   IS   SPINNING   FOR   CHANGE  47 

III.  THE  WIND  IS  WILD  TO-NIGHT  48 

IV.  IN   THE   RUDDY   HEART    OK   THE   SUNSET  49 
V.    SORROW  IS  COME  LIKE  A  SWALLOW  TO 

NEST  50 
VI.     'tis     AUTUMN      AND     DOWN      IN     THE 

FIELDS  51 

VII.    SPRING  SONG  52 

VIII.    SUMMER  SONG  53 

IX.     AUTUMN   SONG  54 

X.    WINTER  SONG  55 

XI.  THE  Canadian's  home-song  56 

XII.     MADRIGAL  57 

XIII.     WORDS  AFTER   MUSIC  58 


T 


LABOR   AND   THE   ANGEL. 

'HE  wind  plunges  —  then  stops; 
And  a  column  of  leaves  in  a  whirl, 
Like  a  dervish  that  spins  —  drops, 
With  a  delicate  rustle, 
Falls  into  a  circle  that  thins  ; 
The  leaves  creep  away  one  by  one. 
Hiding  in  hollows  and  ruts  ; 
Silence  comes  down  on  the  lane: 
The  light  wheels  slow  from  the  sun. 
And  glints  where  the  corn  stood, 
And  strays  over  the  plain, 
Touching  with  patches  of  gold, 
The  knolls  and  the  hollows, 
Crosses  the  lane. 
And  slips  into  the  wood ; 
Then  flashes  a  mile  away  on  the  farm, 
A  moment  of  brightness  fine  ; 
Then  the  gold  glimmers  and  wanes, 
And  is  swept  by  a  clouding  of  gray, 
For  cheek  by  jowl,  arm  in  arm, 
The  shadow  's  afoot  with  the  shine. 
The  wind  roars  out  from  the  elm. 
Then  leaps  tiger-sudden;  —  the  leaves 
Shudder  up  into  heaps  and  are  caught 
High  as  the  branch  where  they  hung 
Over  the  oriole's  nest. 

Down  in  the  sodden  field, 

A  blind  man  is  gathering  his  roots. 

Guided  and  led  by  a  girl ; 

Her  gold  hair  blows  in  the  wind, 

Her  garments  with  flutter  and  furl 

Leap  like  a  flag  in  the  sun  ; 

And  whenever  he  stoops,  she  stoops. 

And  they  heap  the  dark  colored  beets 


Labor    In  tlic  barrow,  row  upon  row. 

AngeL    ^V'hen  it  is  full  to  the  brim, 
He  wheels  it  patiently,  slow, 
Something  oppressive  and  grim 
Clothing  his  figure,  but  she 
Beautifully  light  at  his  side, 
Touches  his  arm  with  her  hand, 
Ready  to  help  or  to  guide  : 
Power  and  comfort  at  need 
In  the  flex  of  her  figure  lurk, 
The  fire  at  the  heart  of  the  deed 
The  angel  that  watches  o'er  work. 


'to^ 


This  is  her  visible  form. 
Heartening  the  labor  she  loves, 
Keeping  the  breath  of  it  warm, 
Warm  as  a  nestling  of  doves. 
Humble  or  high  or  sublime, 
Hers  no  reward  of  degrees. 
Ditching  as  precious  as  rhyme, 
If  only  the  spirit  be  true. 
"  Effort  and  effort,"  she  cries, 
"  This  is  the  heart-beat  of  life. 
Up  with  the  lark  and  the  dew, 
Still  with  the  dew  and  the  stars, 
Feel  it  athrob  in  the  earth." 
When  labor  is  counselled  by  love, 
You  may  see  her  splendid,  serene, 
Bending  and  brooding  above. 
With  the  justice  and  power  of  her  mien 
Where  thought  has  its  passionate  birth, 
Her  smile  is  the  sweetest  renown. 
For  the  stroke  and  the  derring-do, 
Her  crown  is  the  starriest  crown. 
When  tears  at  the  fountain  are  dry, 
Bares  she  the  round  of  her  breast, 

2 


Soft  to  the  cicatrized  cheek,  Labor 

Lulls  this  avatar  of  rest ;  ^"^^'Jf 

Strength  is  her  arm  for  the  weak  ; 

Courage  the  wells  of  her  eyes ; 

What  is  the  power  of  their  deeps, 

Only  the  baffled  can  guess ; 

Nothing  can  daunt  the  emprise 

When  she  sets  hand  to  the  hilt; 

Victory  is  she  —  not  less. 

And  oh  !  in  the  cages  and  dens 

Where  women  work  down  to  the  bone, 

Where  men  never  laugh  but  they  curse, 

Think  you  she  leaves  them  alone  ? 

She  the  twin-sister  of  Love! 

There,  where  the  pressure  is  worst, 

Of  this  hell-palace  built  to  the  skies 

Upon  hearts  too  crushed  down  to  burst, 

There,  she  is  wiser  than  wise, 

Giving  no  vistas  sublime 

Of  towers  in  the  murmurous  air, 

With  gardens  of  pleasaunce  and  pride 

Lulling  the  fleetness  of  time. 

With  doves  alight  by  the  side 

Of  a  fountain  that  veils  and  drips  ; 

She  offers  no  tantalus-cup 

To  the  shrunken,  the  desperate  lips; 

But  she  calms  them  with  lethe  and  love, 

And  deadens  the  throb  and  the  pain. 

And  evens  the  heart-beat  wild, 

Whispering  again  and  again, 

"  Work  on,  work  on,  work  on, 

My  broken,  my  agonized  child," 

With  her  tremulous,  dew-cool  lips, 

At  the  whorl  of  the  tortured  ear. 

Till  the  cry  is  the  presage  of  hope, 

The  trample  of  succor  near. 

3 


Lahor    And  for  those  whose  desperate  day 
'Angel.    Breeds  night  with  a  leaguer  of  fears, 
(Night,  that  on  earth  brings  the  dew, 
With  stars  at  the  window,  and  wind 
In  the  maples,  and  rushes  of  balm,) 
She  pours  from  their  limitless  stores 
Her  sacred,  ineffable  tears. 
When  a  soul  too  weary  of  life 
Sets  to  its  madness  an  end, 
Then  for  a  moment  her  eyes 
Lighten,  and  thunder  broods  dark. 
Heavy  and  strong  at  her  heart; 
But  for  a  moment,  and  then 
All  her  imperious  wrath 
I5reaks  in  a  passion  of  tears, 
With  the  surge  of  her  grief  outpoured. 
She  sinks  on  the  bosom  of  Love, 
Her  sister  of  infinite  years. 
And  is  wrapped,  and  enclosed,  and  restored. 

So  we  have  come  with  the  breeze. 
Up  to  the  height  of  the  hill, 
Lost  in  the  valley  trees, 
The  old  blind  man  and  the  girl ; 
But  deep  in  the  heart  is  the  thrill 
Of  the  image  of  counselling  love  ; 
The  shape  of  the  soul  in  the  gloom, 
And  the  power  of  the  figure  above, 
Stand  for  the  whole  world's  need  : 
For  labor  is  always  blind. 
Unless  as  the  light  of  the  deed 
The  angel  is  smiling  behind. 

Now  on  the  height  of  the  hill, 
The  wind  is  fallen  to  a  breath  ; 
But  down  in  the  valley  still, 

4 


It  stalks  in  the  shadowy  wood,  '^'v"// 

And  angers  the  river's  breast ;  '^Angel. 

The  fields  turn  into  the  dark 

That  plays  on  the  round  of  the  sphere ; 

A  star  leaps  sharp  in  the  clear 

Line  of  the  sky,  clear  and  cold  ; 

But  a  cloud  in  the  warmer  west 

Holds  for  a  little  its  gold  ; 

Like  the  wing  of  a  seraph  who  sinks 

Into  antres  afar  from  the  earth, 

Reluctant  he  flames  on  the  brinks 

Of  the  circles  of  nebulous  stars. 

Reluctant  he  turns  to  the  rest. 

From  the  planet  whose  ideal  is  love, 

And  then  as  he  sweeps  to  the  void 

Vivid  with  tremulous  light. 

He  gives  it  his  translucent  wing, 

An  emblem  of  pity  unfurled, 

Then  falls  to  the  uttermost  ring, 

And  is  lost  to  the  world. 


s; 


THE   HARVEST. 

UN  on  the  mountain, 
(Shade  in  the  valley, 
Ripple  and  lightness 
Leaping  along  the  world. 
Sun,  Hke  a  gold  sword 
Plucked  from  the  scabbard, 
Striking  the  wheat-fields, 
Splendid  and  lusty, 
Close-standing,  full-headed, 
Toppling  with  plenty  ; 
Shade,  like  a  buckler 
Kindly  and  ample, 
Sweeping  the  wheat-fields 

5 


The        Darkening  and  tossing  ; 
Harvest,  'pj^g^e  on  the  world-rim 

Winds  break  and  gatlier 

Heaping  the  mist 

For  the  pyre  of  the  sunset ; 

And  still  as  a  shadow, 

In  the  dim  westward, 

A  cloud  sloop  of  amethyst 

Moored  to  the  world 

With  cables  of  rain. 

Acres  of  gold  wheat 
Stir  in  the  sunshine. 
Rounding  the  hill-top. 
Crested  with  plenty, 
Filling  the  valley, 
Brimmed  with  abundance  ; 
Wind  in  the  wheat-field 
Eddying  and  settling,  _ 
Swaying  it,  sweeping  it, 
Lifting  the  rich  heads. 
Tossing  them  soothingly ; 

Twinkle  and  shimmer 

The  lights  and  the  shadowings, 

Nimble  as  moonlight 

Astir  in  the  mere. 

Laden  with  odors 

Of  peace  and  of  plenty. 

Soft  comes  the  wind 

From  the  ranks  of  the  wheat-field, 

Bearing  a  promise 

Of  harvest  and  sickle-time, 

Opulent  threshing-floors 

Dusty  and  dim 

With  the  whirl  of  the  flail, 

And  wagons  of  bread, 


Down-laden  and  lumbering  Jl'arvest 

Through  the  gateways  of  cities. 

When  will  the  reapers 
Strike  in  their  sickles, 
Bending  and  grasping, 
Shearing  and  spreading ; 
When  will  tlie  gleaners 
Searching  the  stubble 
Take  the  last  wheat-heads 
Home  in  their  arms? 

Ask  not  the  question  !  — 
Something  tremendous 
Moves  to  the  answer. 

Hunger  and  poverty 
Heaped  like  the  ocean 
Welters  and  mutters. 
Hold  back  the  sickles  I 

Millions  of  children 

Born  to  their  terrible 

Ancestral  hunger, 

Starved  in  their  mothers'  womb, 

Starved  at  the  nipple,  cry,  — 

Ours  is  the  harvest ! 

Millions  of  women 
Learned  in  the  tragical 
Secrets  of  poverty, 
Sweated  and  beaten,  cry,  — 
Hold  back  the  sickles  / 

Millions  of  men 
With  a  vestige  of  manhood, 
Wild-eyed  and  gaunt-throated. 

7 


The        Shout  with  a  leonine 
Harvest,  ^^j^^ent  of  anger, 

Leave  us  the  wheat-fields  / 

When  will  the  reapers 
Strike  in  their  sickles  ? 
Ask  not  the  question  ; 
Something  tremendous 
Moves  to  the  answer. 

Long  have  they  sharpened 
Their  fiery,  impetuous 
Sickles  of  carnage, 
Welded  them  aeons 
Ago  in  the  mountains 
Of  suffering  and  anguish  ; 
Hearts  were  their  hammers 
Blood  was  their  fire, 
Sorrow  their  anvil, 
(Trusty  the  sickles 
Tempered  with  tears ;) 
Time  they  had  plenty  — 
Harvests  and  harvests 

Passed  them  in  agony, 

Only  a  half-filled 

Ear  for  their  lot ; 

Man  that  had  taken 

God  for  a  master 

Made  him  a  law, 

Mocked  him  and  cursed  him. 

Set  up  this  hunger. 

Called  it  necessity. 

Put  in  the  blameless  mouth 

Judas's  language; 

The  poor  ye  have  with  you 

Alway,  unending. 


But  up  from  the  impotent 
Anguish  of  children, 
Up  from  the  labor 
Fruitless,  unmeaning. 
Of  millions  of  mothers. 
Hugely  necessitous, 
Grew  by  a  just  law 
Stern  and  implacable, 
Art  born  of  poverty, 
The  making  of  sickles 
Meet  for  the  harvest. 

And  now  to  the  wheat-fields 
Come  the  weird  reapers 
Armed  with  their  sickles. 
Whipping  them  keenly 
In  the  fresh-air  fields, 
Wild  with  the  joy  of  them. 
Finding  them  trusty, 
Hilted  with  teen. 
Swarming  like  ants, 
The  Idea  for  captain, 
No  banners,  no  bugles, 
Only  a  terrible 
Ground-bass  of  gathering 
Tempest  and  fury, 
Only  a  tossing 
Of  arms  and  of  garments ; 
Sexless  and  featureless, 
(Only  the  children 
Different  among  them, 
Crawling  between  their  feet, 
Borne  on  their  shoulders  ;) 
Rolling  their  shaggy  heads 
Wild  with  the  unheard-of 
Drug  of  the  sunshine  ; 

9 


The 
Harvest. 


7**^        Tears  that  had  eaten  '  1 

Dry  on  their  cheeks  ;  ■ 

Blood  in  their  stiffened  hair  \ 

Clouted  and  darkened ; 
Down  in  their  cavern  hearts 
Hunger  the  tiger, 
Leaping,  exulting ; 
Sighs  that  had  choked  them 
Burst  into  triumphing ; 
On  they  come,  Victory  ! 
Up  to  the  wheat-fields, 
Dreamed  of  in  visions 
Bred  by  the  hunger, 
Seen  for  the  first  time 
Splendid  and  golden : 
On  they  come  fluctuant. 
Seething  and  breaking. 
Weltering  like  fire 
In  the  pit  of  the  earthquake. 
Bursting  in  heaps 
With  the  sudden  intractable 
Lust  of  the  hunger: 
Then  when  they  see  them  — 
The  miles  of  the  harvest 
White  in  the  sunshine. 
Rushing  and  stumbling, 
With  the  mighty  and  clamorous 
Cry  of  a  people 
Starved  from  creation, 
Hurl  themselves  onward. 
Deep  in  the  wheat-fields. 
Weeping  like  children, 
After  ages  and  ages, 
Back  at  the  breasts 
Of  their  mother  the  earth. 

10 


Night  in  the  valley,  J^arvesi 

Gloom  on  the  mountain, 

Wind  in  the  wheat, 

Far  to  the  southward 

The  flutter  of  lightning, 

The  shudder  of  thunder; 

But  high  at  the  zenith, 

A  cluster  of  stars 

Glimmers  and  throbs 

In  the  grasp  of  the  midnight. 

Steady  and  absolute, 

Ancient  and  sure. 


WHEN    SPRING    GOES    BY. 

THE  winds  that  on  the  uplands  softly  lie, 
Grow  keener  where  the  ice  is  lingering  still, 
Where  the  first  robin  on  the  sheltered  hill 
Pipes  blithely  to  the  tune,  "  When  Spring  goes 

by!" 
Hear  him  again,  "  Spring !  Spring !  "  he  seems  to 

cry. 
Haunting  the  fall  of  the  flute-throated  rill, 
That  keeps  a  gentle,  constant,  silver  thrill, 
W'hile  he  is  restless  in  his  ecstasy. 

Ah  !  the  soft  budding  of  the  virginal  woods, 
Of  the  frail  fruit  trees  by  the  vanishing  lakes  : 
There  's  the  new  moon  where  the  clear  sunset 

floods, 
A  trace  of  dew  upon  the  rose  leaf  sky ; 
And  hark  !  what  rapture  the  glad  robin  wakes  — 
"When  Spring  goes  by;  Spring!  Spring!  When 

Spring  goes  by." 

II 


N, 


MARCH. 

OW  swoops  the  wind  from  every  coign  and 

crest ; 
Like  filaments  of  silver,  ripped  and  spun, 
The  snow  reels  off  the  drift-ridge  in  the  sun  ; 
And  smoky  clouds  are  torn  across  the  west. 
Clouds  that  would  snow  if  they  had  time  to  rest ; 
The  sparrows  brangle  and  the  icicles  clash ; 
The  grosbeaks  search  for  berries  in  the  ash  ; 
The  shore-lark  tinkles  while  he  plans  his  nest. 

Now  in  the  steaming  woods  the  maples  drip, 
And  plunging  in  with  the  last  load  of  sap, 
Beyond  the  branches  through  a  starry  gap, 
The  driver  sees  the  frail  aurora  flow. 
And  round  the  sinking  Pleiads  bend  and  blow  ; 
A  rosy  banner  and  a  silver  ship. 


IN    MAY. 

THE  clouds  that  veil  the  early  day 
Are  very  near  and  soft  and  fine, 
The  heaven  peeps  between  the  gray, 
A  luminous  and  pearly  line. 

The  breeze  is  up,  now  soft,  now  full. 
And  moulds  the  vapor  light  as  fleece, 
It  trembles,  then,  with  drip  and  lull. 
The  rain  drifts  gently  through  the  trees. 

It  trails  into  a  silver  blur, 
And  hangs  about  the  cherry  tops 
That  sprinkle,  with  the  wind  astir, 
In  little  sudden  whirls  of  drops. 

12 


The  apple  orchards,  banked  with  bloom,  in  May. 

Are  drenched  and  dripping  with  the  wet, 
And  on  the  breeze  their  deep  perfume 
Grows  and  fades  by  and  lingers  yet. 

In  some  green  covert  far  remote 
The  oven-bird  is  never  still, 
And,  golden-throat  to  golden-throat, 
The  orioles  warble  on  the  hill. 

Now  over  all  the  gem-like  woods 
The  delicate  mist  is  blown  again, 
And  after  dripping  interludes 
Lets  down  the  lulling  silver  rain. 


ON    THE   MOUNTAIN. 

I. 

A  STORM  from  the  mountain  is  coming. 
With  lightning  and  thunder  and  rain, 
The  wind  is  sweeping  and  humming 
In  the  butternut  trees  on  the  plain. 

The  cloud  is  ebon  that  follows. 

The  fore-cloud  is  livid  and  pale. 

There  's  the  flash  and  the  tossing  of  swallows 

In  the  turn  of  the  eddying  gale. 

The  rain  is  awake  on  the  mountain, 
'T  is  lashing  the  forest  afar 
With  fall  of  a  shattering  fountain 
And  the  tramp  and  tumult  of  war, 

13 


On  tJu      With  the  drums  of  the  detoning  thunder, 
MoutUain.  p^^^  ^j^^  claiig  in  the  bugles  of  wind, 

With  the  gonfalons  tortured  asunder 

By  the  rush  of  the  host  from  behind. 

The  plains  are  leaping  with  shadows,  | 

The  highlands  go  out  like  a  blot,  " 

And  over  the  eddying  meadows 
The  rain  is  hurtled  like  shot. 

The  darkness  is  glooming  and  brightening, 
There  is  alternate  chaos  and  form, 
With  the  parry  and  thrust  of  the  lightning 
In  the  turbulent  heart  of  the  storm. 


II. 

Now  the  storm  is  over, 
And  the  greener  plain 
Seems  to  glow  and  hover 
Through  the  thinning  rain. 

Now  the  wind  is  gusty 
In  the  maple  tops. 
Striking  out  the  lusty 
Storms  of  gleaming  drops. 

Now  the  goldfinch  whistles 
In  his  spattered  vest, 
Balanced  on  the  thistles, 
Bolder  than  the  best. 

And  the  hermit  thrushes 
On  the  sparkling  hills, 
Link  the  dripping  hushes 
With  their  silver  thrills. 

14 


THE   ONONDAGA   MADONNA. 

HE    stands  full-throated   and   with   careless 


fpose, 
This  woman  of  a  weird  and  waning  race, 
The  tragic  savage  lurking  in  her  face, 
Where  all  her  pagan  passion  burns  and  glows  ; 
Her  blood  is  mingled  with  her  ancient  foes, 
And  thrills  with  war  and  wildness  in  her  veins ; 
Her  rebel  lips  are  dabbled  with  the  stains 
Of  feuds  and  forays  and  her  father's  woes. 

And  closer  in  the  shawl  about  her  breast. 
The  latest  promise  of  her  nation's  doom. 
Paler  than  she  her  baby  clings  and  lies, 
The  primal  warrior  gleaming  from  his  eyes ; 
He  sulks,  and  burdened  with  his  infant  gloom, 
He  draws  his  heavy  brows  and  will  not  rest. 


WATKWENIES.i 

VENGEANCE  was  once  her  nation's  lore  and 
law: 
When  the  tired  sentry  stooped  above  the  rill, 
Her  long  knife  flashed,  and  hissed,  and  drank  its 

fill; 
Dimly  below  her  dripping  wrist  she  saw. 
One  wild  hand,  pale  as  death  and  weak  as  straw, 
Clutch  at  the  ripple  in  the  pool ;  while  shrill 
Sprang  through  the  dreaming  hamlet  on  the  hill, 
The  war-cry  of  the  triumphant  Iroquois. 

1  The  Woman  who  Conquers. 
15 


ti'atkwe-'^ow  clothed  with  many  an  ancient  flap  and  fold, 
*"'^'        And  wrinkled  like  an  apple  kept  till  May, 
She  weighs  the  interest-money  in  her  palm, 
And,  when  the  Agent  calls  her  valiant  name, 
Hears,  like  the  war-whoops  of  her  perished  day, 
The  lads  playing  snow-snake  in  the  stinging  cold. 


AVIS. 


W 


ITH  a  golden  rolling  sound 


Booming  came  a  bell, 
From  the  aery  in  the  tower 
Eagles  fell ; 
So  with  regal  wings 

Hurled,  and  gleaming  sound  and  power, 
Sprang  the  fatal  spell. 

Then  a  storm  of  burnished  doves 

Gleaming  from  the  cote 

Flurried  by  the  almonry 

O'er  the  moat,  — 

Fell  and  soared  and  fell 

With  the  arc  and  iris  eye 

Burning  breast  and  throat. 

Avis  heard  the  beaten  bell 
Break  the  quiet  space. 
Gathering  softly  in  the  room 
Round  her  face ; 
And  the  sound  of  wings 
From  the  deeps  of  rosy  gloom 
Rustled  in  the  place. 

i6 


Nothing  moved  along  the  wall,  ^^"■ 

Weltered  on  the  floor  ; 

Only  in  the  purple  deep, 

Streaming  o'er, 

Came  the  dream  of  sound 

Silent  as  the  dale  of  sleep, 

Where  the  dreams  are  four. 


(One  of  love  without  a  word. 

Wan  to  look  upon, 

One  of  fear  without  a  crj'. 

Cowering  stone. 

And  the  dower  of  life,  — 

Grief  without  a  single  sigh, 

Pain  without  a  moan.) 


"  Avis  —  Avis  !  "  cried  a  voice ; 
Then  the  voice  was  mute. 
"  Avis  !  "  soft  the  echo  lay 
As  the  lute. 

Where  she  was  she  fell, 
Drowsy  as  mandragora, 
TrancM  to  the  root. 


Then  she  heard  her  mother's  voice, 

Tender  as  a  dove ; 

Then  her  lover  plain  and  sigh, 

"  Avis  —  Love  !  " 

Like  the  mavis  bird 

Calling,  calling  lonelily 

From  tlie  eerie  grove. 

17 


^'"■Then  she  heard  within  the  vast 
Closure  of  the  spell, 
Rolled  and  moulded  into  one 
Rounded  swell, 
All  the  sounds  that  ever  were 
Uttered  underneath  the  sun, 
Heard  in  heaven  or  hell. 


In  the  arras  moved  the  wind, 

And  the  window  cloth 

Rippled  like  a  serpent  barred, 

Gray  with  wrath ; 

In  the  brazier  gold 

The  wan  ghost  of  a  rose  charred 

Fluttered  like  a  moth. 


Tranquil  lay  her  darkened  eyes 
As  the  pools  that  keep 
Auras  dim  of  fern  and  frond 
Dappled,  deep. 
Dreamy  as  the  map  of  Nod ; 
Moveless  was  she  as  a  wand 
In  the  wind  of  sleep. 


Then  the  birds  began  to  cry 

From  the  crannied  wall, 

Piping  as  the  morning  rose 

Mystical, 

Gray  with  whistling  rain, 

Silver  with  the  light  that  flows 

In  the  interval. 

i8 


Pallid  poplars  cast  a  shade,  ^^''^• 

Twinkling  gray  and  dun, 

Where  the  wind  and  water  wove 

Into  one 

All  the  linnet  leaves, 

Greening  from  the  mere  and  grove 

In  the  undern  sun. 


Night  fell  with  the  ferny  dusk. 

Planets  paled  and  grew, 

Up,  with  lilt  and  clarid  turns 

Throbbing  through. 

Rose  the  robin's  song. 

Heart  of  home  and  love  that  burns 

Beating  in  the  dew. 


But  she  neither  moved  nor  heard, 

Tranc&d  was  her  breath  ; 

Lip  on  charmed  lip  was  laid 

(One  who  saith 

"  Love  —  Undone  "  and  falls). 

Silent  was  she  as  a  shade 

In  the  dells  of  death. 


THE  VIOLET  PRESSED  IN  A  COPY  OF 
SHAKESPEARE. 

HERE  in  the  inmost  of  the  master's  heart 
This  violet  crisp  with  early  dew, 
Has  come  to  leave  her  beauty  and  to  part 
With  all  her  vivid  hue. 

19 


Thf         And  while  in  hollow  glades  and  dells  of  musk, 
VrltLd in^^^"^  fellows  will  rcflowcr  in  bands, 
a  Copy  of  Clasping  the  deeps  of  shade  and  emerald  dusk, 
Shake-      With  sweet  inviolate  hands, 

speare.  ' 

She  will  lie  here,  a  ghost  of  their  delight, 
Their  lucent  stems  all  ashen  gray, 
Their  purples  fallen  into  pulvil  white, 
Dull  as  the  bluebird's  alula. 


But  here  where  human  passions  pulse  in  power. 
She  will  transcend  our  Shakespeare's  art. 
From  Desdemona  to  a  smothered  flower. 
Will  leap  the  tragic  heart. 

And  memory  will  recall  in  keener  mood 
The  precinct  fair  where  passion  grew. 
The  stars  within  the  water  in  the  wood, 
The  moonlit  grove,  the  odorous  dew. 

The  voice  that  throbbed  along  the  summer  dark 

Will  float  and  pause  and  thrill. 

In  lonely  cadence  silvern  as  the  lark, 

To  fail  below  the  hill. 

The  reader  will  grow  weary  of  the  play. 

Finding  his  heart  half  understood, 

And  with  the  young  moon  in  the  early  dusk  will 

stray 
Beside  the  starry  water  in  the  wood. 


20 


ANGELUS. 

A  DEEP  bell  that  links  the  downs 
To  the  drowsy  air  ; 
Every  loop  of  sound  that  swoons, 
Finds  a  circle  fair, 
Whereon  it  doth  rest  and  fade ; 
Every  stroke  that  dins  is  laid 
Like  a  node, 

Spinning  out  the  quivering,  fine, 
Vibrant  tendrils  of  a  vine  : 
(Bim  —  bini  —  bim.) 
How  they  wreathe  and  run, 
Silvern  as  a  filmy  light, 
Filtered  from  the  sun  : 
The  god  of  sound  is  out  of  sight, 
And  the  bell  is  like  a  cloud, 
Humming  to  the  outer  rim, 
Low  and  loud : 
(Bim  —  bim  —  bim.) 
Throwing  down  the  tempered  lull, 
Fragile,  beautiful : 
Married  drones  and  overtones, 
How  we  fancy  them  to  swim, 
Spreading  into  shapes  that  shine, 
With  the  aura  of  the  metals, 
Prisoned  in  the  bell, 
Fulvous  tinted  as  a  shell. 
Dreamy,  dim. 
Deep  in  amber  hyaline  : 
(Bim  —  bim  —  bim.) 


ADAGIO. 

GRAVE  maid,  surrounded  by  the  austere  air 
Of  this  delaying  spring,  what  gentle  grief. 
What  hovering,  mystical  melancholy 

21 


Adagio  Hath  covered  thee  with  the  translucent  shadow  ? 
The  glaucous  silver  buds  upon  the  tree, 
And  the  light  burst  of  blossom  in  the  bush 
Are  the  new  year's  evangel :  soon  the  birch 
Will  breathe  in  heaven  with  her  myriad  leaves, 
And  hide  the  birds'  nests  from  the  tuliped  lawn  ; 
But  thou,  with  look  askance  and  dreaming  eyes, 
Brooding  on  something  subtly  sad  and  sweet. 
Art  passive,  and  the  world  may  have  her  way. 
Hide  the  moraine  of  immemorial  days 
With  bines  and  blossoms,  so  thine  unvaried  hour 
Be  not  perplexed  with  the  change  of  growth. 
Within  this  sombre  circle  of  the  hills, 
Thy  girlish  eyes  have  seen  the  winter's  close. 
And  what  may  lie  beyond,  where  the  sun  falls. 
When  the  vale  fills  with  rose,  and  the  first  star 
Looks  liquidly,  thy  quiet  heart  knows  not. 
The  permanence  of  beauty  haunts  thy  dreams, 
And  only  as  a  land  beyond  desire, 
Where  the  fixed  glow  may  stain  the  vivid  flower, 
Where  youth  may  lose  his  wings  but  keep  his  joy, 
Does  that  far  slope  in  the  reluctant  light 
Lure  thee  beyond  the  barrier  of  the  hills. 
And  often  in  the  morning  of  the  heart. 
When  memories  are  like  crocus-buds  in  spring, 
Thou  hast  up-builded  in  thy  crystal  soul 
Immutable  forms  of  things  loved  once  and  lost, 
Or  loved  and  never  gained. 
Now  wliile  the  wind 

From  the  reflowering  bush  gushes  with  perfume, 
Thou  hast  a  vision  of  a  precinct  fair, 
Daled  in  the  lustrous  hills,  where  the  mossed  dial 
Holds  the  slow  shadow  narrowed  to  a  line  ; 
Where  a  parterre  of  tulips  hoards  the  light. 
Changeless  and  pure  in  cups  of  tranquil  gold ; 
Where  bee-hives  gray  against  the  poplar  shade, 

22 


Peopled  with  bees,  hum  in  perpetual  drone ;      Adagio. 

In  a  pavilion  centred  in  the  close, 

Four  viols  build  the  perfect  cube  of  sound ; 

A  path  beside  the  rosy  barberry  hedge, 

Leads  to  the  cool  of  water  under  spray, 

Leads  to  the  fountain-echoing  ivied  wall ; 

Pedestaled  there,  flecked  with  the  linden  shadows, 

A  guardian  statue  carved  in  purest  stone, 

Love  and  Mnemosyne  ;  Mnemosyne 

Mothering  the  Truant  to  an  all-cherishing  breast, 

The   wells   of   lore    deepening   her   eyes,   would 

speak  — 
But  Love  hath  laid  his  hand  upon  her  lips. 


DIRGE   FOR   A   VIOLET. 

ERE  was  a  happy  flower. 
Born  in  sun  and  shower, 

In  the  meadow ; 

Sorrow  was  her  dower. 

And  shadow. 


H 


Bid  the  gentle  mole 

Dig  his  deepest  hole. 

For  her  rest ; 

Sleep  has  charmed  her  soul, 

Sleep  is  best. 

Bid  the  vervain  spire 
Light  the  funeral  fire, 
And  the  yarrow 
Build  a  shady  choir, 
For  the  sparrow. 


Dirr^/or  Bid  him  chirp  and  cry, 
a  VwUt.   4.  Everything  must  die, 
She  is  dead/' 
Now  in  exequy, 
All  is  said. 


w 


EQUATION. 

7"  HEN  we  grow  old,  and  time  looks  like  a 

thief, 
That  was  the  spendthrift  of  our  dearest  days  ; 
When  color  mingles  merged  in  silvered  grays; 
When  jovs  are  ever  memoried  to  be  brief; 
When  beauty  fades  ;  when  hope  is  under  feof ; 
When  all  our  moods  are  mantled  in  a  haze; 
When  sprightly  pleasure  for  a  penance  plays 
The  part  of  prudence  in  the  weeds  of  grief  ; 
It  will  suffice  if  unto  memory 
Visit  the  voices  and  the  eager  grace 
Of  da3-s  that  promised  never  to  forget ; 
If  they  will  flow  like  rumors  of  the  sea. 
Heard  under  honied  lindens  in  the  place. 
Where  start  the  marguerite  and  the  mignonette. 


AFTERWARDS. 

HER  life  was  touched  with  early  frost, 
About  the  April  of  her  day, 
Her  hold  on  earth  was  lightly  lost. 
And  like  a  leaf  she  went  away. 


Her  soul  was  chartered  for  great  deeds, 
For  gentle  war  unwonted  here  : 
Her  spirit  sought  her  clearer  needs, 
An  Empyrean  atmosphere. 

24 


At  hush  of  eve  we  hear  her  still  Afterwards. 

Say  with  her  clear,  her  perfect  smile, 
And  with  her  silver-throated  thrill : 
"  A  little  while  —  a  little  while." 


M: 


STONE   BREAKING. 

"ARCH  wind  rough 
,  Clashed  the  trees. 
Flung  the  snow ; 
Breaking  stones, 
In  the  cold, 
Germans  slow 
Toiled  and  toiled  ; 
Arrowy  sun 
Glanced  and  sprang, 
One  right  blithe 
German  sang : 
Songs  of  home, 
Fatherland  : 
Syenite  hard, 
Weary  lot, 
Callous  hand, 
All  forgot  : 
Hammers  pound. 
Ringing  round; 
Rise  the  heaps, 
To  his  voice, 
Bounds  and  leaps 
Toise  on  toise : 
Toil  is  long, 
But  dear  God 
Gives  us  song, 
At  the  end. 
Gives  us  rest. 
Toil  is  best. 

25 


THE    LESSON. 

WHEN  the  great  day  is  done, 
That«secms  so  long, 
So  full  of  fret  and  fun, 
Our  little  girl  is  in  her  cradle  laid : 
She  takes  the  soft  dark-petaled  flower  of  sleep 
Between  her  fragile  hands. 
Striving  to  pluck  it : 
And  as  the  dream-roots  slowly  part, 
She  is  not  in  possession  of  the  lands, 
Where  flowered  her  tender  heart, 
Nor  in  this  turmoil  dire  of  cark  and  strife. 
Which  we  call  life. 
The  which,  husbanding  all  our  art, 
We  will  keep  veiled  until  the  latest  day, 
And  from  her  wrapt  away  : 
Then  when  the  drowsy  flower 
Has  parted  from  the  dreamful  mead, 
And  in  her  palm  lies  plucked  indeed. 
When  her  dear  breathing  steadies  after  sighs. 
And  the  soft  lids  have  clouded  the  blue  eyes, 
A  tiny  hand  falls  on  my  cheek  — 
Lightly  and  so  fragrantly 
As  if  a  snow-flake  could  a  rose-leaf  be  — 
And  in  the  dark  touches  a  tear 
Which  has  sprung  clear. 
From  eyes  unconscious  of  their  own  distress. 
At  the  deep  pathos  of  such  tender  helplessness. 
And  then  she  claims  her  sleep. 
As  if  she  knows  my  love  and  trusts  it  deep. 


Dear  God  !  to  whom  the  bravest  of  us  is  a  child, 
When  I  am  weary,  when  I  cannot  rest, 
I  have  stretched  out  my  hand  into  the  dark, 
And  felt  the  shadow  stark, 

26 


But  no  face  brooding  near,  P^ 

-,  ,  o  7  Lesson. 

Nor  any  tear 
Compassionately  wept : 
I  have  not  slept. 

But  now  I  learn  my  lesson  from  the  sage, 
Who  burns  his  lore  with  acid  on  the  heart ; 
I  will  not  whimper  when  I  feel  the  smart, 
And  for  my  comfort  will  look  down,  not  up ; 
I  will  give  ever  from  a  brimming  sky, 
Not  telling  how  or  why  ; 
I  will  be  answered  in  this  little  child, 
I  will  be  reconciled. 


N 


FROM    SHADOW. 

OW  the  November  skies, 

And  the  clouds  that  are  thin  and  gray, 
That  drop  with  the  wind  away ; 
A  flood  of  sunlight  rolls. 
In  a  tide  of  shallow  hght, 
Gold  on  the  land  and  white 
On  the  water,  dim  and  warm  in  the  wood  ; 
Then  it  is  gone,  and  the  wan 
Clear  of  the  shade 
Covers  field  and  barren  and  glade. 
The  peace  of  labor  done. 
Is  wide  in  the  gracious  earth  ; 
The  harvest  is  won  ; 
Past  are  the  tears  and  the  mirth ; 
And  we  feel  in  the  tenuous  air 
How  far  beyond  thought  or  prayer 
Is  the  grace  of  silent  things. 
That  work  for  the  world  alway, 
Neither  for  fear  nor  for  pay. 
And  when  labor  is  over,  rest. 

27 


From      The  moil  of  our  fretted  life 

Shadow,  jg  ijorne  anew  to  the  soul, 

Borne  with  its  cark  and  strife, 
Its  burden  of  care  and  dread, 
Its  glories  elusive  and  strange  ; 
And  the  weight  of  the  weary  whole 
Presses  it  down,  till  we  cry  : 
Where  is  the  fruit  of  our  deeds  ? 
Why  should  we  struggle  to  build 
Towers  against  death  on  the  plain  ? 
All  things  possess  their  lives 
Save  man,  whose  task  and  desire 
Transcend  his  power  and  his  will. 

The  question  is  over  and  still ; 
Nothing  replies  :  but  the  earth 
Takes  on  a  lovelier  hue 
From  a  cloud  that  neighbored  the  sun, 
That  the  sun  burned  down  and  through. 
Till  it  glowed  like  a  seraph's  wing  ; 
The  fields  that  were  gray  and  dun 
Are  warm  in  the  flowing  light ; 
Fair  in  the  west  the  night 
Strikes  in  with  a  vibrant  star. 

Something  has  stirred  afar 
In  the  shadow  that  winter  flings  ; 
A  message  comes  up  to  the  soul 
From  the  soul  of  inanimate  things  : 
A  message  that  widens  and  grows 
Till  it  touches  the  deeds  of  man. 
Till  we  see  in  the  torturous  throes 
Some  dawning  glimmer  of  plan  ; 
Till  we  feel  in  the  deepening  night 
The  hand  of  the  angel  Content,  _ 
That  stranger  of  calmness  and  light, 

28 


Shadow. 


With  his  brow  over  us  bent,  ^^,°!". 

Who  moves  with  his  eyes  on  the  earth, 

Whose  robe  of  lambent  green, 

A  tissue  of  herb  and  its  sheen, 

Tells  the  mother  who  gave  him  birth. 

The  message  plays  through  his  touch, 

It  grows  with  the  roots  of  his  power. 

Till  it  flames  exultant  in  thought, 

As  the  quince-tree  triumphs  in  flower. 

The  fruit  that  is  checked  and  marred 
Goes  under  the  sod  : 
The  good  lives  here  in  the  world ; 
It  persists,  —  it  is  God. 


THE    PIPER   OF   ARLL. 

'HERE  was  in  Aril  a  little  cove 
Where  the  salt  wind  came  cool  and  free 
A  foamy  beach  that  one  would  love, 


Tl 


If  he  were  longing  for  the  sea. 

A  brook  hung  sparkling  on  the  hill. 
The  hill  swept  far  to  ring  the  bay ; 
The  bay  was  faithful,  wild  or  still, 
To  the  heart  of  the  ocean  far  away. 

There  were  three  pines  above  the  comb 
That,  when  the  sun  flared  and  went  down. 
Grew  like  three  warriors  reaving  home 
The  plunder  of  a  burning  town. 

A  piper  lived  within  the  grove. 
Tending  the  pasture  of  his  sheep ; 
His  heart  was  swayed  with  faithful  love. 
From  the  springs  of  God's  ocean  clear  and  deep. 

29 


Tfu  Piper  Xnd.  there  a  ship  one  evening  stood, 
of  Aril.     -^Yi^gj-e  ship  had  never  stood  before; 
A  pennon  bickered  red  as  blood, 
An  angel  glimmered  at  the  prore. 

About  the  coming  on  of  dew, 
The  sails  burned  rosy,  and  the  spars 
Were  gold,  and  all  the  tackle  grew 
Alive  with  ruby-hearted  stars. 

The  piper  heard  an  outland  tongue. 
With  music  in  the  cadenced  fall ; 
And  when  the  fairy  lights  were  hung. 
The  sailors  gathered  one  and  all, 

And  leaning  on  the  gunwales  dark, 
Crusted  with  shells  and  dashed  with  foam. 
With  all  the  dreaming  hills  to  hark. 
They  sang  their  longing  songs  of  home. 

When  the  sweet  airs  had  fled  away, 
The  piper,  with  a  gentle  breath, 
Moulded  a  tranquil  melody 
Of  lonely  love  and  longed-for  death. 

When  the  fair  sound  began  to  lull. 
From  out  the  fireflies  and  the  dew, 
A  silence  held  the  shadowy  hull, 
Until  the  eerie  tune  was  through. 

Then  from  the  dark  and  dreamy  deck 
An  alien  song  began  to  thrill ; 
It  mingled  with  the  drumming  beck, 
And  stirred  the  braird  upon  the  hill. 

30 


of  Aril. 


Beneath  the  stars  each  sent  to  each  V/'^^if'"' 

A  message  tender,  till  at  last 

The  piper  slept  upon  the  beach, 

The  sailors  slumbered  round  the  mast. 


Still  as  a  dream  till  nearly  dawn, 
The  ship  was  bosomed  on  the  tide ; 
The  streamlet,  murmuring  on  and  on, 
Bore  the  sweet  water  to  her  side. 

Then  shaking  out  her  lawny  sails. 
Forth  on  the  misty  sea  she  crept ; 
She  left  the  dawning  of  the  dales, 
Yet  in  his  cloak  the  piper  slept. 

And  when  he  woke  he  saw  the  ship, 
Limned  black  against  the  crimson  sun  ; 
Then  from  the  disc  he  saw  her  slip, 
A  wraith  of  shadow  —  she  was  gone. 

He  threw  his  mantle  on  the  beach. 

He  went  apart  like  one  distraught. 

His  lips  were  moved  — his  desperate  speech 

Stormed  his  inviolable  thought. 

He  broke  his  human-throated  reed. 
And  threw  it  in  the  idle  rill ; 
But  when  his  passion  had  its  mead. 
He  found  it  in  the  eddy  still. 

He  mended  well  the  patient  flue. 
Again  he  tried  its  varied  stops ; 
The  closures  answered  right  and  true. 
And  starting  out  in  piercing  drops, 

31 


Tiu  Piper  A  melody  began  to  drip 
of  Aril,     ^j^^^  mingled  with  a  ghostly  thrill 
The  vision-spirit  of  the  ship, 
The  secret  of  his  broken  will. 

Beneath  the  pines  he  piped  and  swayed, 
Master  of  passion  and  of  power  ; 
He  was  his  soul  and  what  he  played, 
Immortal  for  a  happy  hour. 

He,  singing  into  nature's  heart. 
Guiding  his  will  by  the  world's  will, 
With  deep,  unconscious,  childlike  art 
Had  sung  his  soul  out  and  was  still. 

And  then  at  evening  came  the  bark    _ 
That  stirred  his  dreaming  heart's  desire; 
It  burned  slow  lights  along  the  dark 
That  died  in  glooms  of  crimson  fire. 

'     The  sailors  launched  a  sombre  boat, 
And  bent  with  music  at  the  oars  ; 
The  rhythm  throbbing  every  throat, 
And  lapsing  round  the  liquid  shores, 

Was  that  true  tune  the  piper  sent, 
Unto  the  wave-worn  mariners. 
When  with  the  beck  and  ripple  blent 
He  heard  that  outland  song  of  theirs. 

Silent  they  rowed  him,  dip  and  drip, 
The  oars  beat  out  an  exequy. 
They  laid  him  down  within  the  ship. 
They  loosed  a  rocket  to  the  sky. 

32 


It  broke  in  many  a  crimson  sphere  ^fA^i/"'^ 

That  grew  to  gold  and  floated  far,  ^ 

And  left  the  sudden  shore-line  clear, 
With  one  slow-changing,  drifting  star. 

Then  out  they  shook  the  magic  sails. 
That  charmed  the  wind  in  other  seas. 
From  where  the  west  line  pearls  and  pales, 
They  waited  for  a  ruffling  breeze. 

But  in  the  world  there  was  no  stir. 
The  cordage  slacked  with  never  a  creak, 
They  heard  the  flame  begin  to  purr 
Within  the  lantern  at  the  peak. 

They  could  not  cry,  they  could  not  move, 
They  felt  the  lure  from  the  charmed  sea ; 
They  could  not  think  of  home  or  love 
Or  any  pleasant  land  to  be. 

They  felt  the  vessel  dip  and  trim, 
And  settle  down  from  list  to  list ; 
They  saw  the  sea-plain  heave  and  swim 
As  gently  as  a  rising  mist. 

And  down  so  slowly,  down  and  down, 
Rivet  by  rivet,  plank  by  plank  ; 
A  little  flood  of  ocean  flown 
Across  the  deck,  she  sank  and  sank. 

From  knee  to  breast  the  water  wore, 
It  crept  and  crept ;  ere  they  were  ware 
Gone  was  the  angel  at  the  prore, 
They  felt  the  water  float  their  hair. 

33 


T fit  Piper  "Yhey  saw  the  salt  plain  spark  and  shine, 
o/Arlt.     -pi^ey  threw  their  faces  to  tlie  sky  ; 
Beneath  a  deepening  film  of  brine 
They  saw  the  star-flash  blur  and  die. 

She  sank  and  sank  by  yard  and  mast, 
Sank  down  the  shimmering  gradual  dark ; 
A  little  drooping  pennon  last 
Showed  like  the  black  fin  of  a  shark. 

And  down  she  sank  till,  keeled  in  sand, 
She  rested  safely  balanced  true, 
With  all  her  upward  gazing  band. 
The  piper  and  the  dreaming  crew. 

And  there,  unmarked  of  any  chart, 
In  unrecorded  deeps  they  lie, 
Empearled  within  the  purple  heart 
Of  the  great  sea  for  aye  and  aye. 

Their  eyes  are  ruby  in  the  green 
Long  shaft  of  sun  that  spreads  and  rays. 
And  upward  with  a  wizard  sheen 
A  fan  of  sea-light  leaps  and  plays. 

Tendrils  of  or  and  azure  creep. 
And  globes  of  amber  light  are  rolled, 
And  in  the  gloaming  of  the  deep 
Their  eyes  are  starry  pits  of  gold. 

And  sometimes  in  the  liquid  night 
The  hull  is  changed,  a  solid  gem. 
That  glows  with  a  soft  stony  light, 
The  lost  prince  of  a  diadem. 

34 


And  at  the  keel  a  vine  is  quick,  The 

That  spreads  its  bines  and  works  and  weaves  gf^Xrii. 
O'er  all  the  timbers  veining  thick 
A  plenitude  of  silver  leaves. 


AT   LES   fiBOULEMENTS. 

A  GLAMOUR  on  the  phantom  shor- 
Of  golden  pallid  green, 
Gray  purple  in  the  flats  before, 
The  river  streams  between. 

From  hazy  hamlets,  one  by  one. 
Beyond  the  island  bars, 
The  casements  in  the  setting  sun 
Flash  back  in  violet  stars. 

A  brig  is  straining  out  for  sea, 
To  Norway  or  to  France  she  goes, 
And  all  her  happy  flags  are  free, 
Her  sails  are  flushed  with  rose. 


THE  WOLF. 

WHOO  — whoo  — 
The  rain  in  the  hollow 
The  wan  gray  sleet  will  follow, 
The  shaggy  moor 
Will  lie  at  the  door, 
Heavy  with  mould, 
Dead  with  cold, 
Whoo —  whoo  ;  —  yu-loo  —  yu-lo8. 
35 


T}ie  Wolf.  Whoo  —  whoo  — 

The  wind  in  the  willow, 

The  snow  heaped  up  for  a  pillow, 

The  shell  of  ice, 

Will  crush  in  a  trice. 

An  iron  mould, 

To  have  and  to  hold, 

Whoo  —  whoo  ;  —  yu-lo6  —  yu-lo6. 

Whoo  —  whoo  — 

The  frost  in  the  furrow, 
Heat  takes  long  to  burrow, 
The  fire  on  the  hearth 
Shakes  its  mirth 
At  one  of  God's  poor, 
Outside  the  door, 

Whoo  —  whoo ;  —  yu-lo6  —  yu-lo6. 

Whoo  —  whoo  — 

Weary  and  worry  him. 
Gnaw  him,  tug  him,  and  carry  him ; 
Dig  him  a  pit, 
Shallow  and  fit, 
In  the  colder  cold 
It  will  hold  or  unfold, 
Whoo  —  whoo ;  —  yu-lo6  —  yu-lo6. 

Whoo  —  whoo  — 

The  steam  from  the  thatches, 

The  casement  tawny  in  patches  ; 

Look  not  yet, 

You  might  never  forget 

The  ghost  of  breath, 

Or  the  leper  Death, 

Whoo  —  whoo  ;  —  yu-lo6  —  yu-lo6. 
36 


RAIN   AND   THE   ROBIN. 

A  ROB  IN  in  the  morning, 
In  the  morning  early, 
Sang  a  song  of  warning, 
"  There  'U  be  rain,  there  '11  be  rain." 
Very,  very  clearly 
From  the  orchard 
Came  the  gentle  horning, 
"  There  '11  be  rain." 
But  the  hasty  farmer 
Cut  his  hay  down, 
Did  not  heed  the  charmer 
From  the  orchard. 
And  the  mower's  clatter 
Ceased  at  noontide, 
For  with  drip  and  spatter 
Down  came  the  rain. 
Then  the  prophet  robin 
Hidden  in  the  crab-tree 
Railed  upon  the  farmer, 
"  I  told  you  so,  I  told  you  so." 
As  the  rain  grew  stronger, 
And  his  heart  grew  prouder, 
Notes  so  full  and  slow 
Coming  blither,  louder, 
"  I  told  you  so,  I  told  you  so," 
"I  told  you  so." 


THE   DAME   REGNANT. 

AH  !  Dame  Gossip  fabulous  ! 
You  have  worn  the  quiet  smile, 
Till  your  mouth  is  drawn  as  trim 
As  a  Quaker's  beaver  brirn ; 
And  when  rumor  runs  a  mile, 

37 


The         You  don't  know  the  soles  he  wears, 
Da,ne       Never  heard  the  rascal's  name  ; 
tieg»an.  ^^  ^^^  neighbors  bring  the  shoe, 
Tug  and  tug  it  won't  lit  you ; 
If  it  does,  ah!  shifty  Dame, 
Rumor's  last  must  be  the  same  ! 
Hey  !  this  comedy  began 
When  the  earth  was  blithe  and  young, 
When  the  less  fair  of  the  fair 
Daughters  of  the  world  of  men. 
Whispered  in  their  errant  hair, 
How  their  sisters  of  the  glance, 
Clear  and  deep  of  star  in  blue, 
Met  the  eager  sons  of  God, 
In  the  valley,  in  the  dew. 
On  the  m3-rtle-scented  sod : 
And  the  truants  from  the  spheres 
Heard  like  donging  of  herd-bells, 
In  the  flow  of  harp  and  flute. 
How  those  others  in  echpse. 
Withered  up  in  jealousies, 
Crowning  malice  in  the  eyes. 
Over  malice  on  the  lips, 
Hissed  their  word  of  hate  and  Hes. 
Ah  !  these  truants  from  the  spheres 
Learnt  the  human  in  the  note 
Of  the  goddess,  and  were  ware 
How  of  all  the  torrent  gold 
Snakes  were  half  and  half  was  hair. 

Yet  the  ages  were  as  one 

Heap  of  burnt  and  calcined  stars, 
Ere  her  popular  crown  was  run 
In  the  mould  of  human  fears. 
Ere  her  sceptre  had  been  cast. 
Tempered  steel  with  foolish  tears. 

38 


Now  they  view  her  at  the  last,  ^^^ 

Personed  like  a  regnant  queen,  Kegnant. 

Cold  as  pole-ice,  hard  as  quartz, 

Loathly  as  the  livid,  lean 

Adder  of  the  triple  tongue. 

Basilisk  eyes  that  reap  and  glean, 

And  a  mind  alert,  elate, 

With  the  splendor  of  her  wit. 

Springing  through  a  smoky  fate. 

With  a  gleam  of  hell-fire  lit. 

And  she  wanders  from  her  throne 
(So  these  cringing  lieges  state). 
While  her  shape  still  glooms  it  there ; 
And  but  give  the  wizard  crone 
Two  small  juttings  in  the  air. 
Spiderlike  she  weaves  her  web, 
From  her  ancient  ventral  store, 
Till  the  whole  great  house  is  meshed 
With  her  legends,  grim  and  hoar. 
Or  she  starts  a  quiet  mouse. 
Feeding  in  the  native  cheese, 
And  a  wolf  springs  from  the  rind. 
Bloated  out  to  what  you  please. 
What  she  does  not  say  she  thinks  ; 
Crafty,  with  a  few  dry  winks, 
Drops  her  poison  in  the  eye, 
Watching  while  it  works  and  sinks  ; 
When  the  eye  is  diamond  clear, 
Comes  she  with  a  slimy  sigh. 
Bred  to  catch  the  dullard  ear, 
Opening  with  the  formula, 
Stereoed  to  the  devil's  phrase 
In  the  human  words,  "  They  say ;  " 
Then  the  burden  of  the  tale 
Crawls  in  after  like  a  snail. 

39 


The        And  if  the  dear  vassal 's  wild, 
^e"'wu  ^VliY,  lier  countenance  is  blank, 

But  the  finger  dwells  awhile 
Calming  on  the  plunging  pulse, 
Just  for,  say,  a  nunnery  smile, 
Till  with  magic  overmuch, 
All  the  story  is  conveyed, 
Through  the  nerves  intensive  played, 
Innuendo  of  the  touch. 


Once  afoot  the  quarry  flies, 
From  the  hunter  in  the  mind ; 
With  a  prudent,  vacant  smile, 
Dull  Saint  Virgin  drops  her  eyes, 
Gives  the  word  with  quiet  guile, 
Guarding  with  her  sainted  wish, 
For  the  error  of  the  tale, 
The  dear  souls  from  blast  and  bale. 
And  the  fighter  to  his  trull 
Tells  his  version  of  the  yarn; 
With  his  bull-brain  all  afire. 
Charges  down  the  ruddy  rag 
Of  the  world  above  his  ire, 
Tramps  the  tale  in  slag  and  mire.     ^^ 
And  the  comments  run  from  "  Pish,' 
To  the  most  convenient  curse. 
In  the  beggar's  damning  purse. 
So  the  story  rolls  and  grows 
Crescive  as  a  cloudy  head. 
Budding  silver  in  the  blue, 
From  black  root  of  thunder  bred. 
With  the  lightning  splitting  through. 
Every  subject  stricken  blind 
With  black  fearing  of  the  Dame, 

40 


strained  of  nerve  and  lean  of  loin,  ^^^^^^ 

Passes  on  the  strangest  talk,  Regnant. 

Like  a  counterfeited  coin  ; 

And  the  fear  of  her  is  wild, 

Works  like  acid  in  the  blood, 

And  the  man  is  worse  than  child, 

Saved  by  innocent  hardihood. 

How  he  supplicates  and  whines, 

When  he  knows  his  fame  is  out, 

And  sees  springing  into  lines 

All  the  fables,  shout  on  shout. 

Thinks  to  run  the  talk  to  earth, 

Talk  that  carries  rumor's  lease ; 

Cloudy  talk  of  vapor  birth, 

Chases  on  the  plams  of  peace, 

Or  where  tides  of  trade  convulse  ; 

Something  mantled  like  a  shape 

Grasps  at  last  with  pounding  pulse  — 

Mist  he  holds;  while  mocking  rings 

All  the  riot  sprung  anew, 

With  the  flap  and  clap  of  wings. 


Nay,  my  craven,  you  who  fear 
All  this  cackle  of  the  crew, 
Carping  at  your  coward  ear  ! 
We  who  know  the  Dame  so  well, 
Whence  she  sprang  and  how  she  grew, 
Do  not  crown  her  deep  with  hell ; 
She  is  but  an  earthly  shape 
Springing  from  the  parent  ape. 
Nothing  wild  with  power  or  eld, 
Nothing  older  than  the  race  ; 
And  this  skull-face  that  you  dread. 
Is  the  image  of  your  head. 

41 


The        Here  where  Comedy  is  held 
^^(TLnt  Deep  in  honor  as  the  star, 
'  Spreading  sparkle  over  sea, 
You  may  see  the  Dame  at  will. 
Nothing  formed  for  dread  or  dree, 
Contemplate  her  and  be  still : 
She  has  worn  that  quiet  smile. 
Till  her  mouth  is  drawn  as  trim 
As  a  Quaker's  beaver  brim  : 
Her  light  eyes  seem  clear  of  guile. 
And  her  smile  is  half  demure. 
Half  malicious.     Let  her  play 
One  of  her  protean  pranks, 
Show  her  fangs  and  start  her  prey. 
Now  she  dares  the  comic  sprite. 
Laughter  only  comes  to  light ; 
Ripples  outward  like  a  flag 
Over  towers  inviolate. 
Sparkles  April  as  a  brook, 
Breaks  where  sun  and  shadow  flit; 
Laughter  silver  and  secure. 
From  the  crystal  wells  of  wit. 
Springing  sanely,  springing  pure. 
Mark  your  Dame  of  many  crowns, 
How  she  hardens  into  sphinx. 
When  she  hears  the  airy  ring 
Of  the  master  that  she  owns, 
How,  amorphous  bulk,  she  shrinks, 
How  she  trails  and  leers  and  winks. 
Just  a  moment  of  gray  rags. 
Ere  the  wind  has  pounced  and  packed 
All  her  baggage  and  her  bags 
Into  limbo,  and  the  dust 
Rises  in  a  smoke,  and  wracked 
Drives  the  cloud  in  shreds  and  shags. 

42 


Laughter  falling  coolly  clear,  ^■^ 

Widens  air  and  broaches  sun,  r^^ju. 

Comes  as  healing  to  a  fear 

But  of  self  and  shadow  spun  : 

Self,  a  lantern-candle,  throws 

Hugeous  spottings  on  the  wall ; 

Dance  the  tragic  giant  Oes, 

Ra3-ed  from  pin-points  punctured  small. 

In  the  battered  shadow-tin 

Fused  of  deed  and  circumstance : 

Coward  in  the  gaping  ring, 

Bound  without  and  look  within. 

Learn  where  fable  flows  and  whence. 

Speech  is  but  the  fluid  mind, 
Reaching  outward  over  life. 
Where  quick  speech  is  dammed  we  find 
Cactus  deserts  sharp  and  dim. 
Dead  for  water,  ruin  lined. 
With  a  mirage  on  the  rim 
Of  the  sundown.     Let  speech  flow 
Like  the  air,  which  is  the  soul 
Of  the  world,  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Shaking  in  the  swamp  of  death 
With  the  poison  bred  of  heat, 
Timing  with  a  tidal  breath 
The  deep  swaying  of  the  wheat. 
Not  till  mind  is  massed  as  near 
Servant  of  the  lucid  soul. 
Sensitive  as  ether  clear. 
Joining  planets  pole  to  pole, 
Shall  we  have  a  dearth  of  this 
Talk  that  lays  the  lash  on  life. 
Only  when  the  mind  rings  true 
To  the  deep-held  undertone 
Heard  where  Nature  moulds  her  young, 

43 


TJu  Will  the  fancy  fail  to  brew 

Ke^uznt.   Noisome  liquor  for  the  tongue. 

Heighten  mind  and  heighten  life, 
Heighten  comment  above  lure, 
Heighten  laughter  above  strife. 
Bred  to  scourge  the  fancy  pure. 
Then  will  come  the  days  of  men, 
When  the  mind  will  govern  power; 
When  clear  speech  will  spring  again, 
Flower  unto  a  lovelier  flower ; 
When  dear  laughter,  victor  browed. 
From  her  scorning  of  your  Dame, 
Will  play  out  a  lambent  flame 
Over  life  to  saneness  vowed. 

Contrast  to  the  present  hour! 
As  a  sage  might  leave  a  coast 
Where  the  cities   shambles  are, 
And  the  people   herded  flesh, 
Climb  the  uplands  into  wood 
Where  the  trees  are   vined  in  mesh, 
Where  noon  dreams   with  eyes  of  eve. 
Where  the  beck  is  flecked  with  gold, 
And  the  silver  violets  fold, 
Under  leafage  cool  and  lush, 
Where  the  moss  is  drenched  with  sleep, 
Where  the  music-memoried  thrush 
Broods  in  dingles  dusk  and  deep. 
Upward  to  the  brow  of  hill. 
Where  the  wind  soars  cool  with  scent, 
And  the  twilights  end  in  stars, 
Where  upon  the  glimmering  plain 
Fire-flies  with  the  lights  are  blent 
From  the  huts  and  haunts  of  men, 
Jewels  in  the  crown  content. 

44 


THE    CUP. 

HERE  is  pleasure  ;  drink  it  down. 
Here  is  sorrow  ;  drain  it  dry. 
Tilt  the  goblet,  don't  ask  why. 
Here  is  madness  ;  down  it  goes. 
Here 's  a  dagger  and  a  kiss, 
Don't  ask  what  the  reason  is. 
Drink  your  liquor,  no  one  knows  ; 
Drink  it  bravely  like  a  lord. 
Do  not  roll  a  coward  eye, 
Pain  and  pleasure  is  one  sword 
Hacking  out  your  destiny  ; 
Do  not  say,  "  It  is  not  just." 
That  word  won't  apply  to  life  ; 
You  must  drink  because  you  must ; 
Tilt  the  goblet,  cease  the  strife. 
Here  at  last  is  something  good. 
Just  to  warm  your  flagging  blood. 
Don't  take  breath  — 
At  the  bottom  of  the  cup 
Here  is  death : 
Drink  it  up. 


THE    HAPPY   FATALIST. 

WE  plough  the  field, 
And  harrow  the  clod, 
And  hurl  the  seed. 
Trust  for  trust : 
The  germ  yields, 
The  wheat  brairds, 
We  gather  the  sheaf, 
Deed  for  deed : 
The  stubble  moulds, 
The  chaff  is  cast, 

45 


The       Dust  for  dust : 

His  days  are  bound, 
But  his  labor  returns, 
The  child  learns 
Round  for  round : 
The  god  is  astir. 
Firm  and  free, 
Weaving  his  plan, 
Swelling  the  tree, 
Bracing  the  man : 
'  All  is  for  good. 

Sweet  or  acerb, 
Laughter  or  pain. 
Freedom  or  curb : 
Follow  your  bent, 
Cry  life  is  joy, 
Cry  life  is  woe. 
The  god  is  content, 
Impartial  in  power. 
Tranquil  —  and  lo  ! 
Like  the  kernels  in  quern, 
Each  in  turn, 
Comes  to  his  hour. 
Nor  fast  nor  slow  : 
It  is  well :  even  so. 


SONG.  ,     ,        .   ,. 

WHEN  the  ash-tree  buds  and  the  maples, 
And  the  osier  wands  are  red, 
And  the  fairy  sunlight  dapples 
Dales  where  the  leaves  are  spread, 
The  pools  are  full  of  spring  water. 
Winter  is  dead. 

46 


When  the  bloodroot  blows  in  the  tangle,        s<"'S- 

And  the  lithe  brooks  run, 

And  the  violets  gleam  and  spangle 

The  glades  in  the  golden  sun, 

The  showers  are  bright  as  the  sunlight, 

April  has  won. 

When  the  color  is  free  in  the  grasses, 
And  the  martins  whip  the  mere, 
And  the  Maryland-yellow-throat  passes, 
With  his  whistle  quick  and  clear. 
The  willow  is  full  of  catkins ; 
May  is  here. 

Then  cut  a  reed  by  the  river. 
Make  a  song  beneath  the  lime. 
And  blow  with  your  lips  a-quiver, 
While  your  sweetheart  carols  the  rhyme ; 
The  glamour  of  love,  the  lyric  of  life. 
The  springtime  — the  springtime. 


SONG. 

TO   B.  W.  B. 

THE  world  is  spinning  for  change, 
And  life  has  rapid  wings  ; 
Oh,  one  needs  a  steady  heart 
Not  to  falter  while  he  sings. 

But  this  is  made  for  my  Dear  One 
When  we  are  far  apart ; 
That  she  may  have  wherever  she  goes 
A  song  of  mine  in  her  heart. 

47 


A  Song.p^  song  that  will  move  with  a  memory 
Of  something  she  loves  best; 
A  song  that  will  throb  at  her  waking, 
A  song  that  will  lull  her  to  rest. 

A  song  that  will  serve  for  an  anchor, 
Compass,  and  pilot,  and  chart; 
A  song  that  will  bid  her  remember 
That  love  is  the  crown  of  art. 

A  song  that  will  bid  her  remember 
The  north  nights  cool  and  still, 
With  the  thrushes  fluting  deep,  deep. 
Deep  on  the  pine-wood  hill. 

With  a  star  at  her  open  window, 
When  the  cuckoo  wakes  with  a  start  : 
Oh  !  can  she  ever  forget  me 
With  a  song  of  mine  in  her  heart  ? 


SONG. 

THE  wind  is  wild  to-night, 
In  tlie  dark  he  turns  and  stirs, 
Or  he  falls  into  dream  and  quiet. 
In  the  gloomy  heart  of  the  firs. 

He  springs  upon  the  trees, 
And  he  shakes  the  sleeping  nest ; 
And  every  little  water-pool 
Has  a  troubled  breast. 

48 


He  has  come  from  a  weary  land,  So'^e- 

Where  the  rivers  of  memory  spring ; 
Their  waters  are  bitter,  are  bitter. 
And  have  dampened  his  wing. 

The  very  flowers  are  musing 
On  something  they  longed  to  be. 
In  a  land  of  peace  and  promise, 
In  a  province  of  the  sea. 

The  birds  cry  out  and  are  silent, 
They  are  dreaming  once  again 
Of  the  tawny-throated  hollow, 
And  the  fern  in  the  glen. 

And  the  wind  raves  out  like  a  spirit, 
With  his  hands  hid  in  his  hair, 
And  my  heart  is  leaping,  and  leaping, 
To  follow  him  —  where? 


SONG. 

IN  the  ruddy  heart  of  the  sunset, 
Fading  and  fading  still, 
A  planet  throbs  and  smoulders. 
Over  the  sapphire  hill. 

A  mist  steals  up  from  the  marshes. 
Spreading  tender  and  bright ; 
A  heron  floats  from  his  haunt  in  the  reeds, 
Through  the  ruby  light. 

49 


A  Song.  The  elm-trees  towered  with  shadow 
Seem  dripping  and  cool  with  dew  ; 
There 's  a  sigh  in  the  cedar  covert, 
But  never  a  breeze  comes  through. 

A  thrush  keeps  ringing  and  ringing - 
Ringing  —  now  he  is  still, 
There  's  a  starry  light  in  a  window 
On  the  dark,  dark  hill. 

The  home  that 's  far  away 
Comes  steaHng  back  to  me, 
With  the  calling  of  the  thrushes 
In  the  bonny  birch-tree. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears 

For  to-day  and  yesterday. 

For  the  yearning  and  the  yearning. 

And  the  heart  that 's  far  away. 


SONG.     October  3rd,  1893. 

SORROW  is  come  like  a  swallow  to  nest. 
Winging  him  up  from  the  wind  and  the  foam; 
Mine  is  the  heart  that  he  loves  the  best. 
He  dreams  of  it  when  he  dreams  of  home. 

Strange !  in  the  daylight  off  he  flies. 
Swift  to  the  south  away  to  the  sea  ; 
But  when  in  the  west  the  ruby  dies. 
With  the  growing  stars  he  comes  back  to  me. 

50 


With  the  salt,  cool  wind  in  his  wing,  Song. 

And  the  rush  of  tears  that  tingle  and  start, 
With  a  throb  at  the  throat  so  he  cannot  sing, 
He  nestles  him  into  my  lonely  heart. 

And  he  tells  me  of  something  I  cannot  name, 
Something  the  sea  with  the  sea-wind  sings, 
That  somehow  he  and  love  are  the  same, 
That  they  float  and  fly  with  the  same  swift  wings. 

I  cherish  and  cherish  my  timid  guest, 

For  oh,  he  has  grown  so  dear  to  me 

That  my  heart  would  break  if  he  left  his  nest. 

And  dwelt  in  the  strange  land  down  by  the  sea. 


SONG. 
'T^IS  autumn  and  down  in  the  fields 
±  The  buckwheat  is  browning  still : 
Gather  yourself  in  your  cloak, 
The  winter  is  over  the  hill. 

There  's  a  cloud  of  black  in  the  north, 
The  aurora  is  smouldering  behind, 
There  are  stars  in  the  parting  clouds, 
And  a  touch  of  frost  in  the  wind. 

Down  in  the  icy  dew 
The  crickets  are  cheering  shrill : 
"  There  is  time  for  another  song, 
Though  winter  is  over  the  hill." 

51 


A  Sottg.  Out  of  the  great  black  cloud 
The  aurora  leaps  and  flies, 
Pushing  its  phosphor  spikes 
In  the  deeps  of  the  violet  skies. 


The  moon  is  wrapped  in  a  film, 
She  looks  wan  and  chill: 
Gather  yourself  in  your  cloak, 
The  winter  is  over  the  hill. 


SPRING   SONG. 

SING  me  a  song  of  the  early  spring, 
Of  the  yellow  light  where  the  clear  air  cools. 
Of  the  lithe  willows  bourgeoning 
In  the  amber  pools. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  spangled  dells, 
Where  hepaticas  tremble  in  starry  groups, 
Of  the  adder-tongue  swinging  its  golden  bells 
As  the  light  wind  swoops. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  shallow  lakes, 
Of  the  hollow  fall  of  the  nimble  rill, 
Of  the  trolling  rapture  the  robin  wakes 
On  the  windy  hill. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  gleaming  swift, 
Of  the  vivid  Mary  land-yellow- throat. 
Of  the  vesper  sparrow's  silver  drift 
From  the  rise  remote. 

52 


Sing  me  a  song  of  the  crystal  cage,  spring 

Where  the  tender  plants  in  the  frames  are  set,    ''"^' 
Where  kneels  my  love  Armitage, 
Planting  the  pleasant  mignonette. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  glow  afar. 
Of  the  misty  air  and  the  crocus  light, 
Of  the  new  moon  following  a  silver  star 
Through  the  early  night. 


SUMMER   SONG. 

ING  me  a  song  of  the  summer  time, 
I  Of  the  sorrel  red  and  the  ruby  clover. 


SI 


Where  the  garrulous  bobolinks  lilt  and  chime 
Over  and  over. 


Sing  me  a  song  of  the  strawberry-bent, 
Of  the  black-cap  hiding  the  heap  of  stones, 
Of  the  milkweed  drowsy  with  sultry  scent, 
Where  the  bee  drones. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  spring  head  still, 
Of  the  dewy  fern  in  the  solitude, 
Of  the  hermit-thrush  and  the  whippoorwill, 
Haunting  the  wood. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  gleaming  scythe. 
Of  the  scented  hay  and  the  buried  wain, 
Of  the  mowers  whistling  bright  and  bUthe, 
In  the  sunny  rain. 

53 


Slimmer  Sing  me  a  song  of  the  quince  and  the  gage, 
•i>on^.      Q£  ^[^^j  apricot  by  the  orchard  wall, 
Where  bends  my  love  Armitage, 
Gathering  the  fruit  of  the  windfall. 


'a 


Sing  me  a  song  of  the  rustling,  slow 
Sway  of  the  wheat  as  the  winds  croon, 
Of  the  golden  disc  and  the  dreaming  glow 
Of  the  harvest  moon. 


AUTUMN    SONG. 

SING  me  a  song  of  the  autumn  clear, 
With  the  mellow  days  and  the  ruddy  eves ; 
Sing  me  a  song  of  the  ending  year, 
With  the  piled-up  sheaves. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  ajDple  bowers. 
Of  the  great  grapes  the  vine-field  yields. 
Of  the  ripe  peaches  bright  as  flowers, 
And  the  rich  hop-fields. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  fallen  mast, 
Of  tlie  sharp  odor  the  pomace  sheds, 
Of  the  purple  beets  left  last 
In  the  garden  beds. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  toiling  bees. 
Of  the  long  flight  and  the  honey  won. 
Of  the  white  hives  under  the  apple-trees, 
In  the  hazy  sun. 

54 


Sing  me  a  song  of  the  thyme  and  the  sage,      Autumn 
Of  sweet-marjoram  in  the  garden  gray,  ^"•^' 

Where  goes  my  love  Armitage 
Pulling  the  summer  savory. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  red  deep, 
The  long  glow  the  sun  leaves, 
Of  the  swallows  taking  a  last  sleep 
Iij  the  barn  eaves. 


WINTER   SONG. 

ING  me  a  song  of  the  dead  world, 
I  Of  the  great  frost  deep  and  still, 
Of  the  sword  of  fire  the  wind  hurled 
On  the  iron  hill. 


SI 


Sing  me  a  song  of  the  driving  snow, 
Of  the  reeling  cloud  and  the  smoky  drift, 
Where  the  sheeted  wraiths  like  ghosts  go 
Through  the  gloomy  rift. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  ringing  blade, 

Of  the  snarl  and  shatter  the  light  ice  makes, 

Of  the  whoop  and  the  swing  of  the  snow-shoe  raid 

Through  the  cedar  brakes. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  apple-loft. 
Of  the  corn  and  the  nuts  and  the  mounds  of  meal, 
Of  the  sweeping  whir  of  the  spindle  soft. 
And  the  spinning-wheel. 

55 


n-'inUr  Sins,  me  a  song  of  the  open  page, 

•S"""^-    Where  the  ruddy  gleams  of  the  firelight  dance, 

Where  bends  my  love  Armitage, 

Reading  an  old  romance. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  still  nights, 
Of  the  large  stars  steady  and  high. 
The  aurora  darting  its  phosphor  lights 
In  the  purple  sky. 


THE    CANADIAN'S    HOME-SONG. 

THERE  is  rain  upon  the  window, 
There  is  wind  upon  the  tree  ; 
The  rain  is  slowly  sobbing, 
The  wind  is  blowing  free  : 
It  bears  my  weary  heart 
To  my  own  country. 

I  hear  the  white-throat  calling, 
Hid  in  the  hazel  ring; 
Deep  in  the  misty  hollows 
I  hear  the  sparrows  sing  ; 
I  see  the  bloodroot  starting, 
All  silvered  with  the  spring. 

I  skirt  the  buried  reed-beds, 
In  the  starry  solitude; 
My  snowshoes  creak  and  whisper, 
I  have  my  ready  blood. 
I  hear  the  lynx-cub  yelling 
In  the  gaunt  and  shaggy  wood. 

56 


I  hear  the  wolf-tongued  rapid  3^/^        , 

Howl  in  the  rocky  break,  ^Z'^""' ' 

Beyond  the  pines  at  the  portage  Song. 

I  hear  the  trapper  wake 

His  Eh  roiilant  ma  boicltf. 

From  the  clear  gloom  of  the  lake. 

Oh  !  take  me  back  to  the  homestead, 
To  the  great  rooms  warm  and  low. 
Where  the  frost  creeps  on  the  casement, 
When  the  year  comes  in  with  snow. 
Give  me,  give  me  the  old  folk 
Of  the  dear  long  ago. 

Oh,  land  of  the  dusky  balsam, 
And  the  darling  maple-tree, 
Where  the  cedar  buds  and  berries, 
And  the  pine  grows  strong  and  free ! 
My  heart  is  weary  and  weary 
For  my  own  country. 


SI 


MADRIGAL. 

NOW-DROPS  now  begin  in  snows, 
(Crocuses  to  flush. 
Gentle  scilla  buds  and  blows 
Nurtured  in  the  slush  ; 
All  about,  like  tinkling  bells. 
Falls  the  ice  a-melting  ; 
Ring,  dilly  dilly,  —  Sing,  dilly  dilly,  — 
Spring  is  here, 

And  the  wolf  is  out  of  his  den,  O  ; 
With  a  ren,  O  :  and  a  fen,  O  ; 
And  a  den,  den,  den,  O  ; 
Sing,  dilly  dilly. 

57 


Madrigal.  Slender  moon  is  floating  down 
Through  a  vat  of  wine, 
Bells  knoll  from  the  drowsy  town, 
Din  —  din  —  dine  ; 
All  about  the  red  robins 
Whistle  in  the  dusk; 
Ring,  dilly  dilly, —  Sing,  dilly  dilly,  — 
Spring  is  here, 

And  the  lambs  are  safe  in  their  pen,  O; 
With  a  ren,  O  ;  and  a  fen,  O  ; 
And  a  den,  den,  den,  O  ; 
Sing,  dilly  dilly. 

Comrade  virgins  clad  in  green 

Quaff  the  nimble  air  ; 

Each  one,  if  her  mate  's  unseen. 

Is  the  fairest  fair; 

Bran  is  hidden  in  the  hedge 

Breathing  on  his  reeds  ; 

Ring,  dilly  dilly,—  Sing,  dilly  dilly,  — 

Spring  is  here, 

And  maidens  beware  of  the  men,  O  ; 

With  a  ren,  O  ;  and  a  fen,  O  ; 

And  a  den,  den,  den,  O ; 

Sing,  dilly  dilly. 


WORDS   AFTER   MUSIC. 

WHERE  go  all  the  melodies  fair, 
They  that  flow  and  fade  in  air? 
Was  their  beauty  all  foredone  ? 

(Ah,  no  —  no  !) 
Pulse  and  cadence  truth  did  tell. 
Vowed  to  music's  magic  spell, 
Passionate  and  ineffable. 

58 


Where  do  all  the  roses  go,  ^y^f^ 

They  that  die  before  the  snow  ?  Musk. 

Was  their  beauty  all  forsworn  ? 

(Ah,  no  — no  !) 
Flush  and  odor  vowed  aright, 
When  they  promised  rare  delight, 
Perennial  and  exquisite. 

Fragile  flowers  and  melodies 
Claim  a  dual  paradise. 
Beauty  is  not  feof  to  death  ; 

(Ah,  no  —  no!) 
Beauty  lives  in  essence  free, 
In  the  inner  heart  we  see 
Beauty's  immortality. 


59 


THIS  BOOK  IS  PRINTED  DURING  OCTOBER 
1898  BY  THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  CAM- 
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